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Finrod Fashions a World by oshun

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Tolkien discusses the writing of fantasy as an act of sub-creation. He describes it as the making of a Secondary World in imitation of God, creator of the Primary World. God is the Prime Mover, the First Creator; the writer must therefore be a secondary creator, or sub-creator. For Tolkien this is not a dismissive term but the title of a high calling. –Verlyn Flieger. Splintered Light: Tolkien's World.

“Ingo! There you are!” Galadriel looked him up and down with a sharp eye. “You look wonderful!”

“As do you, little sister! Glowing, in fact. Love agrees with you.” Finrod’s easy smile lit his entire face. She would not tolerate being called “little” by anyone but him. She’d always been spellbound by the splendor of her oldest brother, but she’d never seen him so joyful.

“It’s not just being in love! Although I will not deny that I am. But I feel good as well because I am learning so much and growing,” she said, while her brother’s slow teasing smile overtook his face and he raised a skeptical blonde eyebrow at her.

“Fine. Have it your way. I know the look of one who is caught up in the brilliance of being well-loved physically. And he is your first, isn’t he? Nothing can compare to that! Not even the joy of Queen Melian’s no doubt incomparable lessons in witchcraft.” She blushed all the way up into the roots of her hair and shook her head, unable to deny or argue with the truth of his words. No point in hiding anything from Finrod, he could read her like a book.

He bent and kissed her fervid brow. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’ve been there myself. It’s a marvelous thing and I do miss it. So, where is the handsome dog? Did you bring him with you?”

She sighed. “More like he insisted upon bringing me here. He did not want me to travel with any lesser guides or guards than himself.”

“I am happy he is looking after you well. All of your formidable intellect aside and your impressive martial skills, I feel better knowing there is one who does not allow you to hare off on your own whenever you feel like it! Where is he? I have something marvelous to show him. I’m bursting with self-regard!”

She took his hands in hers and brought them to her lips, before thrusting them away from her to examine them more closely.

“Oh, look at what you’ve done to your beautiful, beautiful hands! I’ve always thought you had the most glorious hands I’d ever seen on a man—so strong, with such long and graceful fingers!” His nails were ragged and his palms and fingertips scratchy, his knuckles rough and gray with embedded stone dust. “Don’t you even wear gloves to work?”

“But I do, until I get to the finer details. Wait! Just wait until you see what I’ve made before you judge me. You’re such a critic! I’ve created a hall which rivals the beauty of the throne room of Finwë’s palace at the height of the waxing of Laurelin. It’s all smoke and mirrors—quite literally. But it’s coming along really well.”

“But you’ve destroyed your wonderful hands!”

“My hands will heal. Just stop now, silly girl! Don’t judge until you’ve seen what I’ve done. I am as pleased and proud as Fëanáro must have been when he created the Silmarilli!”

“What an outrageous thing to say!” He looked so happy—his face shining with pleasure in his craft and satisfaction in the results. She could not resist being caught up in his elation.

“Nonsense, Artanis! I’m quite certain that the One intended us to use the hands and the intellect that he gave us to create our own worlds.”

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